


The Broken Pieces

by seularen



Category: Doctor Who, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seularen/pseuds/seularen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time Charles joins them, the TARDIS has landed and the Doctor straightens his bow-tie with a sly smile.</p><p>"Off you go, Xavier."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP for my good friend Dee. I wrote it out of order; this is chapter 2.

"I'm sorry," Charles says when the loudest of the dematerialization noises cease, "But I think I'd like to return home."

"What? You can't," Amy immediately responds but the Doctor remains silent, staring with unnecessary intensity at a screen on the console. Goodbyes flash through the Doctor’s head and he leaves them for the telepath to see--the ones at airports and front laws, not the memories that exist deeper down, the ones that would leave the taste of falling ash on Charles’ tongue if he ever foolishly ventured so far. The Doctor knows leaving is a very slight betrayal, really, when human lives are so fleeting; but even after centuries the hurt sometimes resurfaces, as now, as fresh as the day he first watched them leave. An echo of those wounds aches through Charles as he watches the line of the Doctor’s back hunch up defensively, and Charles thinks resignation looks terrible on a man who usually strides casually into the mouths of lions. Silent acknowledgement exists between them, but Amy stands in front of him waiting for an answer, not privy to these silent struggles. She rivals Raven in the ability to make him feel like an absolute heel.

"Yes, I think it would be best," he belatedly confirms aloud, looking at Amy sadly. A large part of him protests just as loudly as Amy, but Charles is disappointed in the Doctor and upset with himself. He knows the Doctor had meant to show him something marvelous--and it had truly been extraordinary, that much couldn't be denied. He's already started composing the introductory paragraph of the article he plans to write. But he _has_ to respect the will and autonomy of other sentient creatures; Erik taught him that lesson, and he won't betray it. Even if the gesture is ultimately meaningless, he will sacrifice traveling through time and space if it means upholding the ideals he's committed his life to. Before he met Erik he'd been cavalier about using his powers on humans, sending casual suggestions and taking surface thoughts without much remorse. His justifications usually centered on variations of "it’s really for the best” or “there was no time;” youthful arrogance, really, he can see that now. The first time Erik had witnessed Charles casually using his powers--so early in their acquaintance, really: hunting down the mutant at their first set of coordinates, he’s hailed a cab at a busy intersection with a finger to his temple--he'd projected seething indignation until Charles finally met his gaze coolly and asked:

"Would you like to say something?"

"Why don't you just take it from me, Charles?" Erik had sneered. The cab had pulled up to the curb next to them, but it had been clear they needed to have this argument out. Charles had waved it on and turned to his friend.

"I wouldn't do that to you, you know that. I promised I wouldn't."

"How benevolent of you,” Erik had replied, unwilling to be placated. “I'm grateful I make your list of exceptions. How unfortunate not everyone can rely on you to respect their autonomy."

"That's not fair, I--"

"What _is_ fair to you, Charles? You don't give people a chance to object to your intrusion; they have no idea they're being violated." Charles remembers those words feeling like a blow, recalls how Erik had clenched his jaw at Charles' hurt expression but had not taken it back.

"That's unworthy of you," he'd said quietly. "You know I would never."

"But you do," Erik had insisted. "Your understanding of the matter doesn't supersede the rest."

"That opinion comes from a place of ignorance and fear," Charles had finally snapped. "Fear that I will take advantage, which is bloody well ignorant." His own defensiveness had surprised him, but he'd never before been accused of assault and found he couldn’t let the accusation stand. "Trust must be extended, yes, but that trust has to exist in every human interaction. What's to stop any of these people,” he had gestured to the passing strangers on the sidewalk around them, “From doing exactly as they please? I might have more opportunity to take advantage than the average individual, but so does a doctor, or a counselor, or a teacher. A parent, if you want to reduce us all to our worst impulses, has the most advantageous position to prey on the weakest among us. Do you look at them all with the same suspicion that you do me?" Erik’s countenance had been growing more impatient throughout Charles’ speech, and he drew breath as soon as Charles finished.

"There are checks against most of those professions; people know to be wary. No one knows to look for a telepath."

"That's true," Charles had allowed, "But you didn't answer my question. Do you distrust everyone this much, or just me?" What have I done to earn this treatment--the question hung between them. Erik's hesitation could have meant anything; Charles had taken the moment to draw a few deep breaths and will himself into a calmer state. "What I mean to say is, why is a mutant worthy of deeper suspicion than a human? That is what you’re implying, after all.” Charles knew he had Erik there, and so did Erik. The other scowled but didn’t answer. Charles remembers wishing fervently in the silence that things were not so tense between them; he preferred quiet honesty to those argumentative fencing matches and wanted to reach out, perhaps touch Erik’s arm in reassurance. But that, he had known, would have been a familiarity too many. Charles had expected he would relent, given time. Time was something Charles had assumed he possessed in abundance, fool that he’d been. So he’d extended an olive branch by commenting,

"I wouldn't have expected you to react so violently, considering your opinion of humans."

"If _I_ were the telepath," Erik had conceded, "Perhaps we would expect no better from me. But you, Charles? The moralist, looking down on us from your high hill? The hypocrisy is a bit much, even for you."

They'd continued the argument in the cab all the way to their next recruitment, picking up the thread of the conversation again at dinner and continuing long into the night. There'd been no verbal resolution and the topic would be brought up again in the weeks that followed. Eventually they'd been able to move away from their personal investment in the conversation and moved it to broader topics of autonomy and western obsession with the individual. In the course of their long discussions they'd cautiously inched closer to common ground. Charles had found Erik's points persuasive--not simply because they made him feel guilty, but because they had forced him to consider the implications of declaring themselves 'better men.' He'd come to embrace the moral recalibration as Erik had begun to allow himself to trust. They'd both agreed, eventually, that there were times when using his power casually was justified, but the question had been an unresolved source of friction. Now, of course, it was a source of incredible discord between them, embodied in the ugly outline of that damnable helmet. In the months after Cuba, during his surgeries and rehabilitation, Erik's words--'it's not that I don't trust you'--had looped in his mind. Trust, that commodity Charles thought he’d been trading between them, had been wisps of smoke cut through with bitter hate. In the end, Erik’s selfishness had gotten the better of him; there was no other explanation for it in Charles’ mind. Erik had left Charles to die. No love could overcome that fact.

 

\--

 

Which is a lie, of course, a lie his mind only clung to during his weakest moments; forgiveness was inherent in Charles, as necessary to the telepath as breathing if he wanted to remain around humans. He’d sensed the same in the Doctor during their first meeting. They shared a grizzled forbearance, only seen as a virtue by those who had never known what it was to tolerate the hearts of hateful men. It was these traits that Erik had called into question, and these traits which Charles now felt it absolutely essential to teach the next generation of mutants. He had to be an example now for all the young people under his care, a living testament that what he preached could be lived. At the forefront of those ideals lay the lesson Erik had taught him about the autonomy of others. The Doctor had introduced self-doubt and guilt during the very moment he was trying to solidify his opinion before starting his school in earnest. Unintentional though it had been, it was too close to a betrayal of those lessons. Respect for the mind had to include alien races, or it all meant nothing.

It’s impossible to tell how well the Doctor understood his influence. Without reading his mind, Charles is left with intuition. Still, he's not surprised at the Doctor's next words.

"One more trip," the Doctor says. "Just one. And then I'll take you home."

"Come on, Professor," Amy wheedles, "So much universe, and you're done after a few hours?" Charles feels the grip on his resistance slipping as she lowers her tone conspiratorially. "I'll make him tell us where we're going first." He sighs and shakes his head, smiling ruefully. So much for his moral imperative.

"Alright, you've convinced me." Amy jumps up and makes a triumphant noise, grinning, and joins the Doctor as they dash around the console, pulling levers and chattering in their shared language of jibberish and affection thinly-veiled as wit. Charles watches them burn bright as suns for each other and wonders how these two mad, reckless people traveling through every universal possibility haven't yet destroyed them all. 'Finger on the button, and they probably got distracted by witches or some other bloody nonsense,' Charles thinks wryly, reminded of his own children back at the school and how frequently they flirted with destroying themselves, each other, the mansion--some of them could take out large sections of the Eastern Seaboard with very little effort. A handful had the power to decimate the human population of the Western Hemisphere, and then there were some... But it did not do to think of the children like that; those were human terms and human fears, and Charles won't harbor those prejudices within his own thoughts. He would not be like Erik, letting his fears dictate his prejudice.

"...and _no_ , right Charles?" Amy's saying, her voice finally breaking through.

"Hmm? I'm sorry dear, what was that?" She purses her lips against a smile.

"No to the squid planet."

"Absolutely not," his answer is swift, and Amy rounds on the Doctor.

"See, I--" And the Doctor talks over her, but Charles interrupts them both.

"How long will we be traveling?"

"About two tea times and a round of Simavij polo," the Doctor answers idly, not looking up, "Give or take a cup." As soon as they're safely set on course, the Doctor runs down the stairs when both their backs are turned. Amy's look and the exasperation he feels from her confirm Charles' suspicion that that's most likely the last they'll be seeing of the Doctor until they've reached the planet. It's better this way, though; the Doctor is wonderful at grand gestures, but meditative introspection seems a bit out of his range. It's no matter to Charles, whose needs consist of a bath. And tea, since the Doctor mentioned it; a strong cup of Earl Grey and maybe a few biscuits. But first a bath, while he still has the energy to pull himself around the bathroom. The prospect sinks weariness into every muscle, but he steels himself.

Amy pockets her phone (updating twitter and letting Rory know they were back in the time vortex), and looks up to catch a grimace that betrays the rawness of Charles' nerves.

“What’d the Doctor say about pushing yourself? For a telepath, you could work on listening.” She brings Charles' other chair over and locks it in place so he can transfer himself in. It's the first time they've been alone since stepping foot on the other planet; mere hours if Charles reflects, though it feels like a week at least.

"Is he always so--"

"Infuriating? Yeah," Amy grins. "He's been traveling so long, I think he's forgotten. Forgotten a lot, but mostly what it's like to live a life not so..."

"Turbulent?" Charles suggests. 

"Yeah," she agrees. "That's why we're here: to remind him." Her revelations about the Doctor are so casual, Charles nearly misses the enormity of the statement. "So," she asks, not giving him any choice as she grabs the handles of his chair and throws her whole weight behind him to wheel him confidently up the ramp, "Where to?"

"The bathroom, please. And... Amy?" (( My dear, can I ask a favor? )) He's more comfortable asking when he can wrap the request in humility and appreciation and send it to her directly.

(( 'Course. )) She gives him a ' _don't ask questions you already know the answer to_ ' look, eyebrow arched.

(( I'd appreciate some help, nothing that makes you uncomfortable but usually I'm on a very regular pattern and I'm afraid -- )) he's stopped short by the sudden burst of reaction from Amy's mind, bright colors with sharp edges framing delight and youthful lust.

(( Are you gonna ask me to undress you? ))

 

\--

 

His thoughts all stutter, and it's moments like these he's glad for the chair because he surely would have stopped in his tracks; the canyon existing between this moment and the last time he'd felt such playfulness directed at him is so vast he can barely see the other side. Had he really been that aimless young man frequenting Oxford pubs and using his abilities like parlor tricks? Had he really not known himself so thoroughly until he'd met Moira and Erik? It seems nearly impossible, yet there it is.

"I hadn't planned to," he replies aloud as they turn through the corridors, and he thinks the TARDIS must be playing tricks because he doesn't remember the bathroom being this close to the console room. "I didn't want to presume."

"Presume away, Professor," she drawls as swings around to get the door, looking back over her shoulder at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk that makes him swallow. In the back of his mind he knew he'd face this moment eventually, had researched thoroughly and asked all the relevant questions of his doctors. The bathroom's lights are low and natural when they flicker on; underneath them, Charles looks around at the free-standing clawed tub and copper piping. This must be Amy's bathroom, then, an assumption he knows is correct when Amy huffs in surprise. 

"Huh, I thought she'd bring us to yours." The tub's sides are high but Amy's enthusiasm is catching and he feels up to the challenge. "There's nothing the TARDIS can't do, you know," she says as he situates his chair directly against the tub and locks the wheels, turning the handles on the tub and holding his hand underneath the water. "I bet it would make a bathroom for you. Wheelchair-friendly and all. She put in the ramps already; a shower's no problem."

"I don't doubt she could," Charles replies, using the feminine pronoun in respect for the presence he feels humming around them, straightening when he's satisfied with the temperature. "But then you wouldn't have an excuse to get me out of my trousers." Indeed, she's already on her knees slipping off his shoes, hands wandering liberally. No one's touched his legs in years except medical staff and occasionally one of the children when he’s forced to ask for assistance. For untrodden ground they're traveling rather quick, but he doesn't say anything that might slow her. How could he? He's trying to be a better man but she's clever, gorgeous, overwhelming; when she looks up at him, he knows he's already lost. She knows it too: her smirk is lopsided with smugness.

"I don't need an excuse. You were brilliant back there, saving our lives," she punctuates her approval by lifting herself up to sit on the side of the tub and grabbing the front of his sweater, pulling him forward until their faces are nearly touching. She smells like apples and orchids, and Charles' eyes drop to her lips. "Saving _my_ life."

He lifts his hands to his belt but Amy leans back and pushes them away, doing it herself, pulling and tugging none too gently--another thing he's missed: that sense of urgency--until there's a pile of his clothes on the floor and then her hands are everywhere, somehow, all at once: carding through his hair, digging into the tense muscle of his shoulder, running her fingers down his chest to scratch the hair below his belly with her long nails. The last makes him reach out and wrap his hand around her wrist, arresting her before she goes too far.

"This is hardly fair, Ms. Pond," he manages in the face of her disappointed pout, "You have me at an extreme disadvantage."

"I _know_." Her voice is low with suggestion and her gaze suggests her mind is far in the future. 'Best catch up, then,' he thinks.

(( Why don't you help me into the tub? It's only fair after you've taken such liberties. )) He frames the thought with teasing affection and she grabs for him, eagerness lending to her strength. Charles likes to think he's comfortable being vulnerable but he's naked in her arms and his withered legs are on full display. He tries not to look at them but doesn't know what to do with the hesitation he feels. It's new, but to be expected: Charles is no longer assured of his own victories, failure introducing doubt where before he'd only felt hubris. But Amy's confidence is enough for both of them: she laughs at herself as she fumbles with lowering him into the tub.

(( Rory would be much better at this. )) Underneath her projected thoughts something gleams in her mind; before he can check the impulse, a magpie materializes from his curiosity and flies to it. It scoops up a tiny, sad thought: (( _i miss him; i wish you were here, rory williams._ )) 'Oh, darling,' he thinks sadly, 'I know. I know.' The rush of empathy undoes his insecurities, the reminder of real pain bringing him back to himself. The distraction of the physical had led him far astray from what he knows of the goodness imbued in Amy Pond, radiating from her mind like a flaring sun.

He projects only, (( You're doing wonderfully. Thank you, again. )) Her arms are submerged and a wet stain grows on the front of her blouse; he valiantly stops himself from staring, instead catching her gaze as she lifts her head up to look at him. But that is a grievous miscalculation because now he's caught in her orbit, unable to look away, unable to form rational thoughts when her mind is projecting vivid images. This is the moment, he thinks, when he should tell her no. A definitive refusal because really, he should know better. But so many things stop him, beginning with the terrifying isolation of drifting through time and space in a tiny blue box and ending with her hand teasing the short hairs on the back of his neck. 

(( Join me? )) He finally relents. Amy is all jaw and elbow and hair in his mouth for a minute as she sinks into the bath with him, water splashing over the side and soaking the mat. It takes several moments of awkward rearrangement before they're comfortable, Amy laughing delightedly and Charles chuckling at the whimsy of their clumsiness. When she's finally settled behind him, her long legs bent and knees peeking out of the water, he drops his head back against her shoulder and stares up into her face. The long curtain of red hair shades the inches between them in the seconds before Amy's restlessness urges her forward just as Charles leans up, wanting some of her laughing spirit to inhabit him a while.. Her kisses are as wild as he'd imagined. Her hand wrap around him, and he grows hard in moments. But here, too, is a new hurdle and his mouth stills under hers as new hesitation blooms.

"Hey, Professor," Amy says, pulling away and poking him in the shoulder, "Thinking too much. Thinking _waaay_ too much."

"I'm sorry," he smiles ruefully, kissing down her jaw in more formal apology. "This is the first time I've been with someone since I've been in a wheelchair." Amy raises her eyebrows at that, expressive face showing surprise before a smirk spreads across her face.

"Lots of firsts here, then." She squeezes him tightly and he sucks in a breath between his teeth. "I've never been with someone in a wheelchair before. Or been with a telepath. Orrr someone old enough to be my granddad, technically, with our timelines and all, but that we'll keep that one between us, yeah?" She grins wickedly but it fades quickly when he doesn't match it. "Charles?"

"You know, I can't--my injury, it--" He can't say it so he projects the wordless idea. When the doctors had told him, he'd given it little thought; on the list of important skills to regain, ejaculation had ranked fairly low on the list. Now faced with intimacy, however, he wonders. He wishes he didn't care, but he wishes that all too often these days. Amy, though, seems to sense all this; she tightens her grip on him, tugging in a decidedly distracting manner, and nuzzles his head aside to bite his neck gently, licking the teeth marks as they fade. His eyes close of their own accord.

"Read my mind," she demands, and so he does. Her mind is starlit on the surface, glowing yellows and reds of her sharp conscious presence. The rest of her is deep space ready to be filled with marvelous things, _extraordinary_ things: the strange and the sacred, the well-loved and lonely. He allows himself a moment to bask before searching for the thoughts she wants him to see. To be helpful she's thinking them loudly she might as well be shouting in his ear. What she thinks is:

(( What's he saying, that he can't get off? But he feels hard; he feels _good_. Has to do with his injury, he said, wonder why he can get hard but can't come. I bet Rory would--no, don't think about Rory while you're touching another man's cock--at least not without him watching. Hmmm, I wonder if Rory--no, _focus_ , Pond--oh bollocks, I told Charles to listen, can he hear this? ))

She looks down at him, wide-eyed, and he bursts into laughter. It feels so marvelous that he keeps on laughing even as she makes an indignant noise and splashes the side of his face.

(( Right then, Xavier, how about this? )) And his laughter abruptly stops as her mind fills with: (( his eyes, his lips, his chest, his freckles i want to lick them, ooh i bet he smells good, you should smell him, yeah, think i will )) her nose buries into the crook of his neck and she breathes deeply, inhaling him; (( he's as pale as me! i like that, his hair, too, i think i want to mess up his hair, yeah, i want to grab his hair when he goes down on me, i bet he can do amazing things with those lips )) and underneath that: (( _curiosity_ , want to touch his legs again, does he feel anything at all?, _amusement_ , as if coming is the most important bit, can’t believe he’s worried about that, _determination_ , watch out charles xavier, i am going to have you and you're going to _like_ it. ))

"You really don't care," he says, amazement sneaking in.

"No, no I don't." Her tone is gently scolding, but mostly amused; she doesn't give him a chance to apologize, stealing the words from his mouth with an open-mouthed kiss and he melts, letting himself enjoy this uninhibited moment as he might have before. It's not the same, of course; it never will be. But Amy Pond's hands move over his body without hesitation and her mind projects fierce want until he lets himself believe the differences aren't so many, and perhaps acceptance is not such a far destination after all.

 

\---

 

There's no accurate measure of time inside the TARDIS; Charles gets the impression that the clocks scattered throughout the rooms are a running gag. His body, however, follows a strict schedule, so he knows they've been in the void nearly two days. The reprieve is rejuvenating; Charles spends most of his time lounging in the library, skipping from T.E. Lawrence’s lost first draft to Hesse’s post-posthumus magnum opus and finally settling on the volume the Doctor had given him.

“A taste of the future of your field. Well. One of your fields.” The Doctor had winked, then grimaced at his wink, finally settling on thrusting the thin book at Charles, shouting to Amy across the pool that she’d better watch out or she’d get too close to the reef, and disappearing again. Immediately Charles had settled into the text by Huxley, fiendishly curious to try to divine what the Doctor had meant by ‘his field.’

(He’ll go searching, decades later, for the passages he’d read that day and recall how Amy Pond had looked as she clutched the side of the pool and listened, feet kicking idly and hair plastered to her forehead. Tracing the crinkled watermarks he’d left on the pages, he’ll let wistfulness for his youth settle into his smile for the rest of the day. And if anyone asks, he’ll say, “Oh, nothing; only a fond memory, just now.”)

They’re drying off and changing in Charles' room when the Doctor skitters down the halls in his mismatched socks calling for them to “Come see!” Amy looks over but Charles is already waving his hand dismissively, and she grins before taking off through the door. By the time Charles joins them, the TARDIS has landed and the Doctor straightens his bow-tie with a sly smile.

"Off you go, Xavier."

Charles knows a silent apology when he hears one, knows it will be denied if acknowledged. There's only one thing for it: he wheels over and opens the door.

They’ve landed in a field on outside the edges of an immense forest that climbs up a mountain, and the mountains stretch into the horizon. Though Charles can hear the buzz and croak of teeming life, there is a _silence_ , a depth within him he’s never been able to reach before, because: they are alone on this planet. He knows it instantly, innately, from still within the TARDIS, that there are no sentient life forces here and that the Doctor has succeeded quite well at his apology.

That assumption lasts for three inches outside the door frame.

And then:

A presence scrapes against his mind and tries to envelop him, tumbling growth and decay in an avalanche through his awareness. Reaction delayed by shock, he tries to throw up his shields but they fissure; he shakes with the unexpected strain of holding on to his self. Clinging desperately, a line he'd read in the Doctor's book that morning comes to him: "in a certain sense disintegration may have its advantages. But of course it's dangerous, horribly dangerous. Suppose you couldn't get back, out of the chaos..." and he feels a thrill of fear.

But the Doctor must have thought this planet safe, and Charles thinks he must trust the Doctor or else he wouldn’t have agreed to a trip in a bloody time machine. So he warily sends out a single thread of perception—and nearly gasps when a tendril of the other consciousness wraps around it. Taking a deep breath and bringing his fingers to his temple, he tries to grasp hold of the thoughts from whatever’s overwhelming his telepathic senses:

 

((

 

 

 

))

 

 

 _Oh_.

 

Oh, of _course_.

(( This isn’t chaos! )) It's immense, yes, and feels depthless—which, he realizes now, is why he hadn’t sensed it with his initial skimming. But as he throws out his senses...

"It's the forest!" he exclaims, eyes flying open to find the Doctor and Amy at either side.

"Not just the trees," The Doctor nudges him in the right direction, impatient for his big reveal.

"No," Charles agrees, closing his eyes; his mind is pulled down into roots to suck minerals from the soil. He unfurls wings and disturbs the branch as he takes off to dive. This is _life_ : and it is _present_. "But...Doctor, what is it?"

"Oh, everything." The Doctor rocks on his heels, clearly pleased with himself. "The whole ecosystem, in fact. Perfectly safe, not too sentient..." But his voice fades as Charles is sucked under. The consciousness of an ecosystem, he discovers, hums and throbs like the inside of a beating heart. Charles can't catch his breath.

(( It's too much. ))

"Stop fighting, Charles," the Doctor says, and Amy adds:

"Don't worry, we've got you. We've got you." He feels a hand on his forearm and looks up to find Amy looking pointedly at the ground. He nods and the Doctor and Amy help him to the grassy floor, laying on either side, taking his hands. He thinks, ‘well, you’ve come all this way’ and with another steadying breath he throws himself down into the soil underneath him. The paths light up before him, neurotransmitters forging new connections and racing through root systems to shoot up through ancient redwoods, into vines that cover miles, only stopping at the edge of a vast river where he becomes the current -- and he is no longer a tiny, broken body but a _planet_ : immense and wrapped with a warm blanket of life. The forest encourages him, its presence tugging him into complete surrender, but he’s anchored by the feeling of two hands, one soft and one callused.

(( Oi, stop holding back. )) Amy’s voice is a mental nudge. (( Let me see again. I want to see what you see. )) Charles hesitates, worried about her mind’s natural defenses holding up against the forest if even he nearly lost himself, and defers to the Doctor with an inquisitive nudge; in return he receives a lazy wave of affirmation, the Doctor’s trust in Amy so implicit that he has the luxury of being idle about it. Charles remembers feeling that way, and yearning curdles in his stomach for a moment.

Charles draws their minds first into his, then pushes them all _out_ into the new awareness, spreading them further and further until they encompass everything, moving up the mountains and down into the silent caverns, becoming eternal and impermanent and enormous with life.

It is the most humbling feeling he’s ever experienced, and when he slowly, reluctantly settles back into his body he feels empty. Cleansed.

"Charles, look!"

He raises his head at Amy’s request to find moss grown completely over his legs. His knees make miniature mountain ranges. He can feel the forest’s embrace, its attempt to draw him into its whole, reduce his body and scatter his atoms to nourish. It’s an aggressive reminder that he was never anything but exactly what he was meant to be--even now, even like this. ‘The totality is present even in the broken pieces,’ he thinks. Tears prick his eyes and splinter the sunlight streaming through the canopy; he blinks against it. The Doctor squeezes his hand tightly and doesn’t let go, and Charles holds just as tightly as wetness overflows from the corners of his eyes and slips down his temple.

They lay for a while longer, hands clasped, staring through the leaves into the darkening sky until the firmament dances with stars.

**Author's Note:**

> The book the Doctor gives Charles is _The Doors of Perception_ by Aldous Huxley. The quote in its entirety: 
> 
> "And yet," I felt myself constrained to say... "and yet it does not matter that he's all in bits. The whole is disorganized. But each individual fragment is in order, is a representative of a Higher Order. The Highest Order prevails even in the disintegration. The totality is present even in the broken pieces. More clearly present, perhaps, than in a completely coherent work. At least you aren't lulled into a sense of false security by some merely human, merely fabricated order. You have to rely on your immediate perception of the ultimate order. So in a certain sense disintegration may have its advantages. But of course it's dangerous, horribly dangerous. Suppose you couldn't get back, out of the chaos..."


End file.
